Kathleen Tessaro - The Perfume Collector

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ she agreed.

‘When you’ve signed all the papers, we can begin marketing the apartment. Then you’re free to return to England.’

‘Yes.’

Closing her eyes, Grace breathed in. The air was a delicate cocktail of things foreign and familiar; both damply green and faintly musty; as sea-soaked as the oysters, as crisply refreshing as the champagne. She took another drag. ‘Do you mind very much if we just sit here for a while?’

‘Not at all.’

‘I don’t know why,’ she confessed, ‘but I’ve always loved the smell of rain.’

‘ Bonjour , madame .’

‘ Bonjour ,’ Grace nodded to the doorman standing at attention as she passed into the lobby.

She stopped by the concierge’s desk. ‘Excuse me, are there any messages for Madame Munroe?’

‘Ah, let me see,’ the concierge riffled through the papers in front of him. ‘There it is!’ He held up a telegram triumphantly and then presented it to her with a little bow. ‘For you, madame.’

Grace could feel her mouth go dry with nerves. At last. ‘Thank you.’

On her way to the lift, she eagerly tore open the envelope: DARLING STOP WHAT NEWS STOP MALLORY .

Her heart sank.

Mallory had the decency to contact her before her own husband did.

It had been at least a week now since she’d informed him, with perfunctory politeness, of her planned trip to Paris. A week without so much as a letter or a phone call.

Wadding the telegram up, Grace went to shove it into her coat pocket but there was something already in there. She took it out. It was the card she’d found on the floor of the shop when she and Monsieur Tissot were startled by the old woman. She must’ve put it in her pocket by accident, without thinking.

Grace examined it for the first time.

It was written in stylized, energetic script and the card itself was watermarked and yellowed with age. She turned it over; it was covered on both sides by dense writing. Ma chérie, Quelle idée merveilleuse pour un parfum ! the correspondence began, but beyond that her French failed and she needed help.

She had a French dictionary in her room.

The lift doors opened and she stepped on.

At least an exercise in translation might take her mind off the echoing silence from across the Channel.

‘Andre, hand me that book, will you please? We must go to a bookshop today or we shall be forced to read what’s in the ship’s library, which will be appalling.’

Valmont passed Madame Zed a novel from her bedside table. They were in the midst of packing – the ship for Lisbon left in the morning – and they had enlisted Eva’s help; she hauled a pile of garments out of the closet and laid them on the bed, ready to fold in layers of tissue paper.

But instead, Madame stared at her, appalled. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Packing, ma’am.’

‘No, no, no, no, no! Those clothes are old. They reek of last year’s thoughts and aspirations. Absolutely not! Stop immediately!’

Eva looked to Valmont, who rolled his eyes, stepping in to intervene. ‘So what exactly do you want us to do with them?’

‘I don’t care what you do with them! We are creatures of fashion and fashion is about change. About the new and exciting. We cannot be married to the past like this. No.’ She turned her back on the pile. ‘Just looking at them makes me weak with indifference.’

‘Fine,’ Valmont sighed, ‘but you will need something to wear. Or will we simply be spending all our time in the cabin?’

Madame draped herself across the arm of the sofa, picking at a tray of French confections. ‘Well, that’s an excellent point. As it happens I’ve met the cleverest little man in Chinatown who has the most beguiling selection of Chinese silk you can imagine and is most industrious with a sewing machine. I’ve ordered an entirely new wardrobe.’ She popped a pink sugared bonbon into her mouth and smiled, that characteristic one-sided grin. ‘Paris will be agog when we return! There is nothing like it to be had in the whole of Europe! Picture yards and yards of flowing silk, matched with embroidered fitted jackets with stiff mandarin collars, exotic bell-shaped sleeves, all in jewel colours that will make you weep from longing. I’m going to have some Arabian slippers made as soon as we come into port. The only thing is, you need to collect them, Andre. He doesn’t speak a word of English and never sets foot out of Chinatown. His name is Mr Wu.’

‘Mr Wu,’ Valmont repeated, flatly. Eva got the impression there were many Mr Wu’s all over the world, and that Madame always managed to engage their services. ‘And how will I find this Mr Wu?’

‘Oh, that’s easy! His shop is in a basement. Somewhere between a grocery and an apothecary.’

‘Easy?’ Valmont ran his hand over his eyes. ‘A basement. In Chinatown.’

‘But you will know the apothecary because there are two great stone dragons with their tongues sticking out by the entrance and huge blue porcelain jars of herbs in the windows. Of course all the signs are in Chinese so giving you a name is of absolutely no use.’ She stood up. ‘I have every confidence in you, my boy. But do hurry. We’re running out of time and there’s still so much to do.’

‘Do I need to pay him?’

Madame paused, her brow wrinkling. ‘Now there’s a question. You know, I can’t recall. It seems I spent quite a long time there one afternoon. We drank vast quantities of green tea, had a very vivid conversation neither of us understood; measurements were taken, fabric was discussed. I must have had my purse with me…’ she mused, looking about the room. ‘Have you seen it since?’

‘I’ll take cash along anyway,’ Valmont decided, going into his room to retrieve his jacket and hat.

‘Now,’ she turned to Eva and waved at the pile of signature voluminous creations lumped together on the bed, ‘do me a favour and remove all these. I can’t bear to have them in my sight!’

Eva stared at the yards and yards of beautiful fabric. ‘What do you want me to do with them, ma’am?’

‘Burn them! Drown them! Do whatever one does to stray cats with no home. One must never be sentimental about leaving the past behind.’

‘Do you, I mean, would you mind terribly if…’

‘Take them!’ Madame cut her off. ‘As long as I don’t have to see them, I don’t care what becomes of them.’

When he came back, Valmont was holding a small glass vial. He handed it to Eva. ‘Here.’

She looked up at him in surprise. ‘What’s this?’

He shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘Why don’t you sniff it and see.’

Eva lifted the lid off. The fragrance rising up was at first green, mossy and coolly fresh. Then, gradually, it warmed to a sweeter, subtly musky base. It was a perfume balanced precariously between unfolding layers of pure white flowers, spring green herbs and something darker, more knowing.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘I made it.’

‘You…?’ She stared at him in disbelief.

His cheeks coloured a little. ‘I told you I could make perfume,’ he said, turning away from her, adjusting his hat in the mirror.

‘But this is… it’s beautiful!’

‘You didn’t believe me, did you?’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Well,’ he tried to appear nonchalant, ‘you can have it if you like.’

‘You can’t give this to me,’ she protested, putting the stopper in the vial and handing it back to him.

‘Don’t you like it?’

‘Yes, of course. But you mustn’t waste it.’

‘Waste it? What were you going to do? Pour it around the room?’